HouseCompetition Ravenclaw
by rejooc
Summary: These are the stories I'm submitting for the House Competition! Ravenclaw Head of House
1. Practice: Drabble

During Harry Potter's time at Hogwarts, the Whomping Willow was a bit of a terror. Students were afraid of its violently swinging branches and tendency to eat birds, despite lacking a mouth. Of course, only a few students knew the tree also connected to the Shrieking Shack, a fact which would have increased the fear for many of them and the risk-taking for others.

Eleven years after the Battle of Hogwarts and ten years after the complete restoration of the castle, however, the Whomping Willow was the closest one young boy could get to his father. The scarred walls of the ancient castle and its rolling grounds were certainly a firm reminder to students of what the dangers of dark magic and lust for power can be, as well as a bleak memorial to the lives lost. Many students in Teddy Lupin's time had lost a parent or a sibling or an aunt or uncle at the Battle of Hogwarts. Teddy knew he wasn't alone. But having lost both parents, he did _feel_ alone.

His godfather was understanding and Teddy knew Harry had felt many of the same things he was feeling during his time at Hogwarts. Which is why he hadn't mentioned his trips down the secret passage at the base of the Whomping Willow. When Harry was at Hogwarts, the closest thing he had to his parents was a dangerous mirror and an old trophy case. For Teddy, deep claw marks in the walls of the Shrieking Shack and the smashed furniture felt like real proof that his father had existed. And perhaps, he hoped, that he loved him.

Teddy didn't have much of a physical reminder of his mother to look at, but he enjoyed sitting on the dusty old floor, in the quiet old shack, and slowly changing his features to match the picture Harry had given him. First, he would shift his face and hair, slowly turning into a warm maternal smile and a pop of pink hair. Then, ever so carefully, he would change again.

An old scar would creep across his pale face and his hair would thin and recede until a simple patch of grey-brown hair adorned his crown. He always brought a mirror, so he could see his parents' smile. It hurt to see that he could never quite get it right, though. The most accurate imitation on his own features wouldn't bring the sparkling eyes of his mischievous mother or the smirking mouth of his jokester father. But he could see, for a moment, their smiles, and he could pretend that that was enough.

His friends—not that he had very many—didn't seem to understand his fascination with the old tree. But of course, he never let them come. They never saw, and he didn't think he'd want them to. He had hoped Victoire would ask, though. He couldn't bring himself to invite her, but he never could say no to her either.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise that she would follow him, though. With her Delacour good looks and the bright intelligence from her mom, and the knack for sneaking and pranking from the Weasleys. Uncle George always said she reminded him of Fred, and then he'd always look sad. There was so much sadness, it seemed. But Victoire always made it better.

So when Teddy Lupin was sitting on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, brushing brambles out of his hair in preparation for the night, he shouldn't have been surprised to see Victoire Weasley. Standing at the entrance to the Shrieking Shack with wide eyes, it was clear that she'd followed him. When he looked up, she only smiled, and Teddy realized that he couldn't even be mad. It seemed, in fact, that he wanted her there.

That February night was the first night that he didn't spend time changing his appearance. Instead, two young students sat on the floor and talked about family. He talked a lot about his mom and dad, she talked a lot about her uncle and her dad. Despite her own father having been attacked by a werewolf during the battle, she seemed entirely understanding when Teddy explained about his dad, and didn't hold that against his memory.

Funny, the things that will spark a friendship between young students. At 11 years old, Harry, Ron, and Hermione found a troll and a stone and their friendship was forged from there. At nearly the same age, at nearly the same time of year, Teddy and Victoire discovered that a tree and a bunch of memories can do the same thing.

Perhaps, Teddy thought, thinking of Ron and Hermione, they wouldn't stay just friends for very long.


	2. Practice: Short Story

**A/N: This world and its content is, of course, JKR's, although this story is mine.**

 **Ravenlaw. Short Story. Prompt: "Cleaning up." And I'm Head of House! Thanks everyone. :)**

Standing in the kitchen scrubbing dishes, Ron Weasley was not at all happy that his best friend and sister were going to be visiting. His dear wife, preferring muggle methods, had begun cleaning a week before and Ron couldn't lie—the house had looked amazing. But it was just a house wasn't it? What did Harry and Ginny care if it was a mess?

Unfortunately, little Rosie was just getting a grasp on her magic and pulled pranks that would've made Fred and George proud. In this case, the result was a blown out and totally NOT clean Granger-Weasley house. Frustrated, Hermione had repaired the disaster and left to purchase new food from the supermarket ("Honestly, Ronald, you should know by now that food is the first of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration."). Worried that Ron might foul up or that his use of magic might encourage Rosie's, she had insisted he wash the dishes by hand.

Ugh.

So Ron was standing in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot he'd never even seen Hermione use, and swearing under his breath. He supposed Rosie would probably start swearing soon, too, but didn't care too much. James was already saying "bloody hell" and he was only a year older than she was. He supposed Ginny's mouth was just as bad as his.

Ugh.

Scrubbing a particularly grungy bit of food off the pot, he managed to splash soapy water all over himself and the floor. While Rosie's giggle meant SHE thought it was funny, Ron did not see the humor. Muttering under his breath, he pointed his wand at the soapy stain on his shirt.

" _Evanesco,_ " he gritted.

Rosie's laughter doubled when her daddy's shirt disappeared.

Ron supposed he should be grateful he didn't manage to vanish all of himself. Swallowing hard, he decided he would try more simple spells. The risk was worth if it meant he didn't have to do muggle chores.

"This is your fault, Rosie," he said, patting her on the head as he walked by. Standing in the door frame, he pointed his wand at the sink of dishes. Thinking better of it, he picked up Rosie and her bouncer and moved them to a safer place, and then pointed his wand at the sink of dishes.

Pondering for a moment, he resolved to a spell and aimed. " _Scourgify._ " A shocking amount of soap poured from the tip of his wand, soaking not only the sink and the dishes, but also the floor and his trousers.

Groaning, he aimed again. " _Tergeo_!" The water disappeared but foamy bubbles dried in place and hardened into powdery puffs, coating most everything in the kitchen. "No! Bloody hell. Uh…" He looked down at his bare chest and closed his eyes for a moment, shrugged, and looked back up. " _Evanesco._ "

The dishes disappeared.

He smiled a small smile. Well, they weren't dirty anymore, were they? Remembering Lockhart saying nearly the same of Harry's arm bones, he shuddered, but returned to the task at hand.

But water cleans soap, so a small amount should suffice. " _Aguamenti!"_ A massive stream of water erupted from his wand, flooding the kitchen as he tried to flick the spell off. "No no stop!" The flow halted and he sloshed through the kitchen to open the back door, glad he had thought to take Rosie off the carpet.

The carpet!

" _Impervius!"_ He shouted, aiming at the fuzzy green flooring. Finally, a spell worked! But his problems were unresolved, since the kitchen was still soaked and Hermione would be back anytime. What would they serve dinner on if there were no dishes?

Well, she would fix something up.

Sighing sadly, Ron put his hand against his head. Setting down his wand, he retrieved the strange looking broom Hermione called a "mop," and began cleaning the floor. Most of the water he pushed outside, but some soaked into the mop and he squeezed it into the sink. Satisfied, he retrieved a towel and dried the floor, an effort that was only somewhat successful considering the state of his trousers and socks.

Frustrated, he unbuckled his jeans and threw them aside, careful to make sure his knickers were dry and appropriately covering anything he wouldn't want his infant daughter to see. Returning to the floor, he dried the rest as best he could and put the towel up to dry.

Finally, he returned to the sink. The fateful starting place of an entire disaster. Checking the cupboards, he was happy to discover that only the dishes in the sink had disappeared—although he was pretty sure one of them was his Chudley Canons bowl, a thought he didn't much like to consider—and that dinner would be okay.

Stepping back, to admire his handy work, he was surprised to hear the squishing sound of footsteps in the soaked mud outside. Realizing Hermione must be back, he slipped into the broom cupboard to wait, hoping to surprise her with a bit of fun before their guests arrived.

Snapping shut the door just a moment before there was a light knock on the open kitchen door, he covered his mouth to suppress a giggle. When he heard the first step onto the kitchen tile, out of sight with the door open but none the less very audible, he sprung from the cupboard and jumped in front of his lovely wife.

And Harry Potter stared back at him, one hand on the door knob, another on the neck of a bottle of butterbeer. Looking him up and down, once, he swallowed hard.

"Am I, ah, overdressed then?"

Embarrassed, Ron couldn't help laughing, and soon they were both red, doubled over with guffaws.

"You can't go shirtless, what will Rosie think of the hippogriff tattoo?" Ron giggled, returning to where he'd left his trousers.

"Oh, but I should go in my knickers though?"

They laughed for a few more minutes until Ginny arrived at the doorstep carrying James and a small basket. "You were supposed to help me, Harry, is everything—oh hello, Ron—is everything—oh. Hello, Ron." Her eyes wide, she stared at her brother for a moment before bursting into giggles herself.

Winking, Ron left to fetch himself a shirt and Harry and Ginny set about getting glasses for all of them. When Hermione's squishy footsteps finally approached, Ron had returned and was playing with Rosie and James while Ginny cut up the meat she'd brought and Harry told Ron about his recent efforts with the Ministry.

"Ron?" Hermione called, stepping up into the kitchen with a bag of groceries in her arms. "Oh, Ron!" She exclaimed, staring at the floor with a strange expression on her face.

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance and Ginny smiled the mischievous smile that siblings get whenever their brother or sister is going to get in trouble.

"Ron, you cleaned the floor! You mopped!" Hermione beamed, setting the groceries on the counter and giving Ginny a half-hearted hug as she walked by. Ginny's face fell but it had nothing to do with the quality of the hug and she returned to her cutting board and a block of cheese ready to become sliced cheese.

"That was so sweet of you!" Kicking off her shoes so as not to get the floor dirty, she approached Ron with her arms open. "And you changed! This is much more suitable." Ron stood to return the hug and managed to knock over James' cup, the contents of which harmlessly bounced off the carpet. "You even protected the carpet?"

"I—uh—yeah—I—" Ron stammered, his face red again as he hugged his wife.

She turned again to face the kitchen and took in the clean counters, sparkling sink, and absence of dirty dishes. Noticing the towel, she pointed her wand and flicked it gently. "Let me just get that, I really appreciate all this, Ron. _Evanesco._ " The towel vanished. "Oh dear," she frowned.

Harry, stifling a laugh, feigned a shocked expression. "Hermione! You really should use muggle methods."


	3. PracticeTheme

**A/N: This is JKR's world. :)**

 **Ravenclaw. Theme (revealing a secret). Prompt: Drawing. And I'm HoH!**

It started small, with just a few doodles in the corner of his recipes. Of course, he didn't think too much of the images that depicted what each devilish treat would do. It made sense that Fred would have marked that down.

But when he pulled the stack of receipts from the previous year and found that only the most recent ones had any doodles, and only a few of them had anything to do with the purchases. Sorting through his belongings, he realized that Fred couldn't have made the doodles because….well because he hadn't been there when George purchased that new cauldron and the receipt featured a tiny doodled hippogriff.

It was months before he found a sheet of paper, tucked into a potions book, with a magically animated drawing of Harry, Fred, George, Ginny, and Ron in their full Gryffondor gear, flying around a tiny Quidditch field.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stared at the messy lines and crayon scribbles meant to be hair. His twin, a red-headed stick figure on a broom, smiled back at him.

It was a long time before he worked up the nerves to ask anyone about his drawings. He kept them secret, holding onto them as if Fred might suddenly appear and take the credit himself.

Finally, though, he couldn't keep waiting.

"Hey, Ron," he asked one night at dinner while everyone else was busy. "Do you, uh…draw much?"

"Bloody awfully," Ron responded, chipper as ever since Hermione had accepted his proposal. He was, of course, also happy to hear from George, who had hardly spoken in the months since Fred's death. "I tried to make a Valentine's Card for Hermione and it ended up looking more like an arse than a heart."

George barely managed a smile and couldn't seem to get out any words.

The following night, he approached Ginny. Harry was close, but out of earshot, and he hoped the conversation would stay private.

"Hello, little sister," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "Done any art recently?"

"Yes, actually," George turned, surprised by the casual confession.

"What have you drawn?" He asked eagerly.

"Well," she paused, cocking her head and making a face extremely like their mother's. "I enchanted Ron's jumpers so they'd suddenly be much too large or much too small when he put them on. I suppose _he_ created the real art, but I felt like I should take some credit for the string of swear words he came up with. You should've seen Mum's face!" She smiled, clearly hoping the prank would brighten George's day, but nothing would do it and he walked away quickly.

Weeks passed before he learned anything new.

Finally, Harry approached him, sheepish as ever. His mess of black hair was particularly out of place since the Battle of Hogwarts, and it seemed to simply prefer being a disaster to being neat.

"Hey, George," he began, averting his eyes and covering his scar with a thick lock of hair.

"Harry," George responded cautiously.

"I, uh…Ginny said you had asked about…well I…." Nerves were like Harry, but stammering was unusual and George almost found himself interested. "I miss him, too." He finally whispered.

George stared, not registering the words Harry said until he was finished.

"You guys got me to Hogsmeade, you saved us all a bit from Umbridge—and from our exams of course—and you always made this place feel like home," he gestured around the Burrow, his eyes shining. "Ron was always my friend, of course, but you guys treated me like your brother. Nicer maybe," he smiled. "I couldn't find any words to say, but you should have something to smile about. I'm a ruddy awful artist though. Merlin's beard, enchanting them to move his harder than I thought, too, and I—"

He was interrupted by a bear hug strong enough for both twins to be involved, and somehow Harry thought they just might be.

They never talked about that conversation again, and they kept each others' secrets, but George didn't feel so alone after that. He realized that he was the only one that had lost a twin, but he wasn't the only one that had lost Fred. It didn't seem fair that they should lose him, too, and the next night's dinner included the festive banter of a full set of Weasleys, a Granger, and a certain Harry Potter who really was a terrible artist.


	4. Round 1: Drabble

**A/N: Hello!**

 **House: RAVENCLAW (HOH)**

 **Category: DRABBLE**

 **Prompt SUNRISE.**

 **W/C: 859**

 **Enjoy!**

It was the first of September, just a few short months after the Battle of Hogwarts. Of course, it felt like lifetimes since he'd boarded the Hogwarts Express, and perhaps it was. He certainly didn't feel like the same little boy who had woken up before the sunrise that morning, all those years ago, and eagerly packed his few belongings.

His Muggle mother and step-father had been so excited for him. Scared, too, of course, and he remembered his mother bringing him a steaming cup of hot chocolate and watching the sun peak above the horizon. That was the last day Dean Thomas had been a normal boy, and the first day he realized he was never meant to be.

Since then, he had watched the sun rise every September 1st. During his school years, of course, he watched with his mother. But since the Battle of Hogwarts, it just didn't seem right to sit with her and pretend everything was normal again. She had been sad to let their tradition go, but she understood that he was in pain. His world had fallen apart in a way.

He sighed, suddenly feeling nervous, as he approached the little café in Muggle London. Open 24 hours, with a lovely view across the Thames, it seemed an appropriate spot to watch the sun rise in a place that didn't quite feel like home. Of course, students all across London were going to be waking soon for their first day at Hogwarts—a castle now filled with scars, a new host of ghosts, and an over-abundance of heartache. He'd considered going there for this special time, but the association was just too painful.

Instead, he'd brought a piece of Hogwarts with him. His favorite piece of Hogwarts.

The sky was still a hazy purple when Dean stepped inside the café, appreciating the warmth and aroma it hugged him with, and sat down at the first available booth with a view. He kept his back to the door so he wouldn't keep checking it, and his nerves rose like bile in his throat.

He waved a hand at a barista who smiled appreciatively and returned to the back of the store, where sloshing and banging told Dean she was still cleaning. He sighed, and put his head against the window's cold glass.

A muffled crack got his attention but he kept his eyes aimed out the window, refusing to seem desperate. The door's bell rang gently a moment later, and he closed his eyes.

 _Don't look. It could be anybody. Just keep cool._

"Anyone sittin' here, mate?" The familiar Irish accent brought a small smile to Dean's face, and he turned his eyes to his long-time friend.

"You are, Seamus," he grinned. "Thanks for doing this."

"I couldn't miss an opportunity to celebrate something," Seamus responded, "all we've been doing is grieving but we have to go on. And sunrises," he nodded meaningfully, "are a very important occasion. Besides, we met today."

"I'm sorry?"

"All those years ago, little first year Dean and Seamus. We met on the train, don't you remember?"

 _Of course I remember._ "I think so," he cocked his head and pretended to think. "Of course I remember."

The barista returned to the counter and the two stood to order their drinks. Seamus insisted on paying for them both, particularly out of character for one of Gryffindor's least polite graduates. Dean, meanwhile, was more preoccupied with his clothes.

He'd purchased a new shirt for this occasion, but the jacket was old and he couldn't help worrying he'd rip his shirt or that the material would snag on something. The jacket, worn through in several places, was comfortable enough but he missed the robes and cloaks of the wizarding world. He wondered if it had been a mistake to avoid that side of his life today, until Seamus shot him a smile.

"Thanks for picking this place, mate. I don't think I could've faced all the sad, ah…family we have today." The barista didn't seem to notice the slip and Seamus went on. "And I'm glad to be here with you." His voice was quiet but the expression warmed Dean's stomach and seemed to melt away the majority of his nerves.

"Me neither," he said simply.

They returned to their booth and turned their attention out the window, where the sky was turning a soft pink. Each of them had placed one hand around their drinks and the other on the table, and Dean sensed a funny itching feeling in his fingers, as though he very much wished to be holding something.

 _Don't think like that, just look at the sunrise. You're going to miss it and regret it and nothing is—_

Slowly, gently, and ever so softly, Seamus reached his hand out and took hold of Dean's. His eyes never left the horizon and Dean returned his own gaze their after just a moment's hesitation. He squeezed back and the warmth in his stomach and chest blossomed brilliantly, far apart from the hot drink in his other hand.

 _Perhaps it's not really the end,_ he decided. _Just a new sunrise._


	5. Round 1: Short

**A/N: All this belongs to JKR, etc. etc.**

 **House: Ravenclaw**

 **Position: HOH**

 **Category: Short**

 **Prompt(s): Playing the Piano; "Fly with me,"**

 **W/C: 1393**

It had been so long since Hermione had taught Ron how to play the piano. The way her slender fingers had moved across the ivory keys had always brought a smile to his face and she, of course, had smiled in return. She simply glowed when she played, and she beamed at Ron in her own special way when he followed her hands, plinking the wrong keys but trying so hard.

He had always tried so hard.

He thought of her bushy hair, bouncing and swinging as she danced to her own music and sang with their young children. He thought of her small smile when he'd told her it wasn't fair for her to be academic and creative.

Nothing seemed fair.

"Come, Ron, play with me!" She'd say, dragging him down to the bench beside her. Music hadn't been so important while they were at Hogwarts but their time on the run with Harry and their recovery from the Battle of Hogwarts had shown her how important it was to hold onto things that she loved. She played often and she played well. She didn't sing very well, but she enjoyed that too, and Ron always loved to hear her sing.

When Rosie started playing, too, it was just too perfect.

"Fly with me!" She'd sing, wiggling on the seat.

" _Play_ with me," Hermione would correct, smiling at her daughter.

Ron would jump in between them. "No," he'd say, "Rosie's right. Let's fly, my dear!" And they would dance, and Rosie would play.

"Fly, Mummy, fly!"

"Fly with me," Ron would say.

But she flew away.

He supposed that everyone does, at some point, have to go. But sitting between his children, he couldn't help feeling like he should have gone first. Surely the world was a better place with Hermione in it. His world had certainly been so much better.

 _"We're here to remember a woman who always proved everyone wrong," the Minister said slowly. A smile danced in his voice but his expression was somber, and the strange giddiness that overtakes people at a funeral seemed to bubble in the audience._

 _Ron closed his eyes, unable to bear the site of the sleek black coffin, decorated with yellow carnations. The music returned to his ears, pouring out of all the memories he couldn't let go of._

"Fly with me," he told her, wrapping her arms around his waist as he kicked off from the ground, launching them both into the sky. The broom, a gift from Harry and Ginny, was more than capable of supporting them both, but Hermione insisted that it wobbled anyway.

"You know I hate to fly!" She shrieked, clutching him tightly.

"That's why I'm flying, silly," he responded, a touch of smugness tainting his voice. "Just enjoy."

Peeling herself away from him, she peered down at the ground with nervous eyes. Ron glided them smoothly into the sky, soaring between tall trees as he followed the course of a river far below. Hermione breathed out, slowly relaxing although the tension never fully left her arms.

 _"She was a woman of many talents, skills, and abilities. She contributed much to the Wizarding world, and the field of magic theory has much to thank her for. Hermione Granger-Weasley truly was the brightest witch—not only of her age, but of this age."_

A melancholic stream of notes trickled through the air, whispering across Ron's skin as he stepped inside their small house. He frowned and leaned heavily against the doorframe, remembering the sadness in Hermione's voice when she'd returned from St. Mungo's with the worst news.

Each key struck deeply into his chest and he could feel the pain she felt, although he was so desperately helpless to do anything about it. When he approached, he could see that she hadn't bathed, and her shirt was sticking to her thin arms, emaciated from lack of appetite.

"'Mione?" He placed a cautious hand on her shoulder and his stomach dropped when he felt the bones jutting against her skin. "Do you want to come get Rosie with me?"

Poor Rosie. Of course she didn't understand why Mummy wasn't able to take care of her when Daddy was at work. Mummy couldn't take care of herself right now.

When she didn't answer, he sat down and started playing—badly—until she played with him. She smiled softly and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"Come fly with me, come fly let's fly away…." She whispered, singing a tune he recognized as one of the Muggle songs she listened to sometimes. She planted a gentle kiss on his cheek and stood, leaving for the first shower she'd taken since they'd received the news.

Things got better after that and Ron remembered the tears that wouldn't stop when they were able to try again and had Hugo.

 _"Hermione was a great friend, and the best witch I've known," a woman said from the front, saying the same thing everyone already knew. Ron supposed it was someone from the Ministry but he hadn't met many of the researchers that worked alongside Hermione, studying magic._

 _Those horrible bitter tears that sting your face and burn your throat. He couldn't keep his eyes closed but he couldn't see through his tears._

Hermione had played at Harry's funeral, and Ginny's when she'd passed just a few weeks later. No one had thought Hermione was very creative or artistic until after the Battle, when they were suddenly just so grateful for her music.

James, Albus, and Lily had thanked her through their own tears and they'd kept in touch since then. They visited regularly and always wanted to hear Hermione play.

Hermione was always so strong. She never let her nerves get to her when she played, and she always obliged when someone wanted to hear her.

"I think," she finally admitted one day, while she and Ron lounged underneath an oak tree in their yard, "that playing music is a bit like flying."

Ron eyed her doubtfully and opened his mouth to respond.

"No, no, let me finish. There's this feeling like you don't ever want to come down, and when you're not playing you want to. It's like the wind in your face, having the keys beneath your fingers. But of course, you wouldn't want to do it all the time. So it's like a breath of fresh air whenever you get to." Ron found himself nodding, and was surprised to discover her depth of passion. "It's a bit like magic, too, I think."

He smiled and stood, pulling Hermione to her feet. "Fly with me," he whispered.

She simply glowed, her warm eyes sparkling happily. With a gentle wave of her wand, music flowed through the air and they danced. The notes were soft, like the kisses they exchanged, and that moment seemed to fill all of forever.

 _But looking back, it was much too short. All of it was too short._

 _When the funeral was over, Ron made his excuses and left alone, returning to the home he had shared with his lovely wife. He insisted to their children that they go to their own homes and spend time with their families._

 _"Trust me," he said, "you don't know how much I wish I could be with her today."_

 _Hugo and Rose had looked at their partners and children and nodded sadly, understanding._

 _He sat at the piano bench and stared blankly at the keys. It seemed that all the music was gone from the world._

 _He thought about fetching his broom, but even the open skies couldn't offer him what he was looking for now._

 _Slowly, he made his way upstairs and climbed into his side of the bed. One freckled hand fell sadly across the spot that was Hermione's and hot tears spilled down his cheeks._

 _"Fly with me," he thought, imagining her soft voice pulling him from his body._

 _It was so nice to dance again. He had missed her so much._

 _Rose and Hugo weren't really surprised when they found him the next day. There wasn't anything left in this world without Hermione and he'd known that since he was 11 years old._

 _They were buried together, with lines of music carved into their tombstones so they could share the things they loved so much, and fly together forever._


	6. Round 1: Themed (Rejection)

**A/N: Obviously this is JKR's world and not mine.**

 **Relevant notes for The Houses Competition are at the bottom.**

Just the shake of her head. A small frown followed, but it was that small shake that brought the plunge of a sword deep into the opponent's chest. The wounded man was silent, stoically accepting his fate as he fell, and the attacker smiled slightly, knowing he had won the favor of his Queen. He turned to see her expression, but found she'd already returned to her place beside the king, and a new onslaught of war was forming across the great plains.

He slid seamlessly into the ranks of his fellow soldiers and prepared himself, calculating the number of steps he'd need to take until he could feel the first taste of the fight.

There was no wind.

There was no sun.

Just a battlefield full of soldiers and a righteous Queen.

The battles seemed endless but the Queen stood with her troops with the fiercest expression carved masterfully into her perfect face. Knights and castles fell, the rubble of war strewn across the battlefield as a harsh reminder of the stakes. Win or lose, neither side was immune to the cold death that spread through their ranks.

Shattered and hopeless, many soldiers fell. He counted himself lucky to be alive—not even lucky. It was the Queen's might that had preserved him—but knew that these deaths were the natural cost of war. The destruction of the enemy was the goal of each side, and neither could be expected to fail entirely in that aim.

Some of the others among him seemed angry for being sent in first while their Queen stayed back, but when he looked back to survey his people and saw her standing there, he couldn't help applaud her decisions. Towering above her subjects was a Queen whose ferocity had led them beyond just the destruction of one enemy, but of several. A Queen whose might and majesty made her the shining beacon of hope for her own people.

Beyond that, she was simply too valuable to send forward without dire cause. Of course, that cause did arise occasionally.

Her value came from her power, of which she possessed more than any other soldier. The opponent, just a black silhouette against across a checkered plain, shook in fear to see the Queen emerge. Pure white and shining mightily, she pulled a dazzling image in war. Her great height was an asset and she strategized each move carefully, calculating the steps she might take and anticipating the moves of her opponent.

A single drop fell across his feet and he looked up to see the face of the gods staring back, observing with knitted brows. Relief flushed him when realized their saving grace—the god of war—had arrived. Freckle-faced and beady-eyed, the god's image was not particularly awe-inspiring, but his strategic prowess was unmatched.

The war, he knew, was won.

Finally, having captured the enemy king, they turned their focus towards the ground. Picking up the scattered remains of their comrades was a painful task, but a worthy one. He was pleased to find himself in the company of his Queen and they worked side by side to retrieve each careful piece of the fallen.

There were no words exchanged but the tension rose between them. He couldn't help noticing the smooth curves of her figure, the icy coolness of her face and the sharp peaks of her crown. He couldn't deny she was terrifying, particularly with the looming presence of the king ever-hovering between them, but there was something too beautiful for him to ignore.

He paused for a moment, turning towards her with a hopeful smile. Although he was much shorter than his Queen, he knew he offered his own draws. With a sharp round face and sloping shoulders, he was a thorough bred soldier, solid and ready for her command. He hoped, however, that he might offer more.

But it came.

Her small eyes narrowed and she seemed taken aback, withdrawing as though she suddenly realized something important. Focused and stern, she never looked away, but simply shook her head. A small frown followed, but it was that small shake that brought the plunge of despair deep into his heart.

But this was wrong, all wrong. He wasn't the opponent he was—

Just a pawn. He was just a pawn in a game much bigger than he was. He'd only ever been a pawn to the great White Army, servants of the god of war.

She withdrew slowly, her expression reserved as she returned to the king's side and nodded meaningful. He understood at once and summoned a bishop, who dutifully crushed the pawn whose only crime was caring too much about a woman far behind his own station.

Marble shattered and scattered across the checkered plains. And he had lost his first war, without even knowing he was fighting one.

"Ugh!"

"What is it, Ron?" Hermione, distracted by her growing pile of shattered black pieces, hadn't seen the exchange and looked up, surprised, at Ron's outburst.

Ron's eyes were wide as he met Hermione's questioning glance. "That bishop! He just killed his own pawn! My pawn!"

They put their heads close together and peered down at the board, where the chess pieces moved slowly and dutifully, cleaning the mess that was left after every game.

"You don't think they're—" she swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat, "sentient. Do you?"

"Sentient?"

"Yeah, you know," she moved lower, eyeing the stark White Queen nervously. "Alive. Thinking, feeling creatures?"

Now Ron looked nervous and he pulled her back gently. "Don't say that," he warned, holding up the shattered piece again and shrugging forcibly. "It was just a pawn."

 **Ravenclaw (HOH)**

 **Themed (Rejection): Wizard's Chess**

 **W/C: 947**


	7. Round 1: Fourth Story

**A/N: These things belong to JKR.**

 **House: Ravenclaw (HOH).**

 **Category: Theme (Rejection).**

 **Prompt: Mother/Daughter; Acceptance**

 **W/C: 1367**

The sun beamed beautifully through the window and the air was light with the tunes of birds singing across the grounds. Everything was just as it should be for a perfect Spring morning. Except, of course, that it wasn't.

Sitting alone at the table nearest the window, Hermione stared blankly at the roll of parchment in front of her. A quill—dry—and an inkwell – untouched—sat beside her right hand, ready for the letter she couldn't seem to start. Her hand twitched a few times, itching eagerly towards her tools, only to settle again when she realized she had nothing to say.

She hated the idea that an essay was easier than this and rejected it immediately. It wasn't that an essay was _easier_ , she just knew where to begin with an essay. But this?

Although she'd never try to make the comparison, she couldn't help feeling as though she probably understood a bit of how Harry felt when he watched each of the Weasley children engage with their sweet mother. Harry, of course, had no mother, and his aunt was no substitute. Hermione had a mother but it was just…. Not the same.

She couldn't help being jealous of Ron when he received pictures of his family that moved, or enchanted bits and bobbles from Mrs. Weasley. She was especially jealous when Ginny spoke of their relationship. Although she had certainly taken after her brothers too much to ever have a close friendship with Mrs. Weasley, Ginny was quite lucky to have the relationship she did, and she often talked about their conversations.

"Mum thinks it's probably not a jinx," she'd said one day, discussing a funny rash that had appeared on her arm. "She thinks something's caught in my robes from Herbology. Said I should ask Professor Sprout and then ask to have them washed again."

Hermione had frowned, unable to explain that her mom would have just asked whether it was that "funny magic business." She had often considered going to her with questions and problems but typically decided against it. Mrs. Granger didn't even understand the fact that she didn't understand.

And so when Hermione had received this letter, she couldn't help feeling sad. Complete with a full address and Muggle postage, the envelope was everything that the Wizarding world was not, and she was certain the owl had tried to reject it before agreeing to carry it to Hogwarts. As great a mother as she was, she wasn't really a mother for a witch. It was almost enough to make Hermione wish she'd been just a Muggle. But of course, no one who had experienced the wizarding world would ever _really_ want to be a Muggle.

The letter was neatly written on office stationary, and bore the name "Dr. Jean Granger, Ph D" at the top. The letters looked funny in blue ink, clearly written in pen, and Hermione had stared at the document for a long time before she read it. When she finally began, it didn't take her very long.

"Hermione," she'd written, "I hope you're well. Haven't heard for a while and was beginning to worry. I hope your education is progressing finely. Are they instructing you properly in your maths and sciences? Or just magic? You know I've said before that it won't be very practical if you decide to come back to the normal world. Love you, dear." In her lovely, swooping way, she'd signed simply, "Mom."

 _"Normal world."_ Bah.

It wasn't the fact that she didn't understand, Hermione decided. It was that she ultimately didn't want to. Magic, to her, was an impractical silly thing. Something that it was nice to be good at but that you shouldn't waste time learning. At least not without learning all the other things.

She had tried to explain how necessary it was to have a basic understanding of biology and chemistry before beginning Transfiguration, or how important practical maths were for Potions. Even Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures had direct correlations in the Muggle world. But that didn't matter.

The Wizarding world, and thus the part of Hermione that belonged to it, were coldly and entirely rejected.

So of course it was difficult to write a reply. There were so many things she'd prefer to say but that she knew would never leave her mouth (or quill). There were many other things she wished she could explain but knew she would never be successful in doing. And still, there were those things that she dare not even think.

 _"Dear Mom, I wish you could be like Mrs. Weasley. She gave her kids jumpers for Christmas instead of anxiety and guilt."_

 _"Dear Mom, I am the best student in my class. Not that that matters, eh?"_

She supposed she shouldn't be so hard on a woman who truly had no reason to understand any of this world, nor would she ever need to. She was loving and generally supportive. Kinda. Mostly.

So why was this so hard?

"Dear Mom, You too."

She thought again of Mrs. Weasley and wondered why her own kids didn't realize how lucky they were. Sitting back against the hard back of the chair, she peered out the window and considered her memories of a woman she so wished could be her own mother. Soon, ideas started filling her head. Thoughts and questions and realizations. Ginny and Ron and Fred and George and Percy and Bill and Charlie—none of them could _only_ say positive things.

Carefully, as though balancing on the thinnest rope, she dipped her quill into the stark black ink, and held it to the parchment.

"Dear Mom," she wrote slowly, each motion producing a satisfying scratch. "Thank you." The reasons and the justifications seemed to pour out as she went on. She thought of all the things her mom had taught her about being strong, being smart, and being courageous.

It seemed evident to Hermione that she would have done well in Ravenclaw. She might have even done well in Hufflepuff, or Slytherin. But of course, she didn't really value those things. She didn't value learning, loyalty, or cunning nearly as much as she thought she did. In fact, she admired those who did. But she had learned from a very young age, having been the weird girl with the funny hair, that being strange wasn't so bad. That had taken guts, of course, and it was _that_ that she'd brought with her to Hogwarts.

"Thank you for teaching me to be brave, Mom. You put the lion in me."

She signed her name and smiled at her work. Her mother would, undoubtedly, be confused. But she hoped she would also be glad.

Hermione had often wondered what her life would be like if she'd been sorted into one of the other houses, having decided long ago that each house was full of people who valued things and achieved things she could only dream of. However, she doubted that it would be too much different. She would always be Hermione Granger—the girl who preferred the library to the common room, and the girl who was just a little strange. But no matter what was the case, she had to thank her mom for making her who she was.

She folded the parchment and bagged her things. The walk to the owlery wasn't terribly far but by the time she arrived the sun was sinking across the lake and the whole of Hogwarts seemed to be bathing in the glistening colors of Gryffindor house. She smiled faintly as she tied the letter to an owl's leg and pet the bird gently.

Of course, her mother wasn't perfect. Or perhaps, of course she wasn't perfect. But she was strong. The rejection stung, and Hermione had no doubt their relationship would suffer. It hurt to see that she couldn't ever really be accepted as a witch. Funny, since the Wizarding world seemed to reject her for being just a Muggle, although she was quite evidently not.

Perhaps though, she thought as she watched the owl flit through the sky, they would be okay. Perhaps there was a lion inside each of them.


	8. Round 2: Drabble

**A/N: None of this is mine (Except the story itself).**

 **Ravenclaw (HOH!)**

 **Drabble**

 **"Dragon/s"**

 **789 Words**

* * *

"It'd be so cute, though!" Rough around the edges, Charlie Weasley was not typically heard describing anything as _cute_. But of course, Charlie Weasley didn't typically have the opportunity to describe human babies, either. However, it turned out, much to Fleur's chagrin, that Charlie loved babies almost as much as he loved dragons. When he found out that she and Bill were expecting a second child, he simply couldn't help suggesting names for the little rascal.

Apparently he had never approved of the name "Victoire," deeming it far too simple for such a fiery child. "You didn't put enough thought into it!" He had told them repeatedly. Fiery children with fiery hair should have fiery names, and thus came the suggestions for things like "Antipodean" and "Hebridean."

"You don't have to use the whole name, no one wants to be called 'Swedish Short-Snout.'" He explained, matter-of-factly to a very pregnant Fleur one afternoon. "But Catalonian would be a lovely name!"

"Wouldn't that be a girl's name, though?" Bill asked, hoping to steer his brother into a more friendly zone for his wife who had decided that _"zis is entirely unaccepteeble!"_

Charlie looked taken aback, thinking of the many male _Catalonian Fireballs_ he'd cared for over the years. "I don't think so," he finally said, "but you could name it Ironbelly! That's masculine!"

Fleur stared, unsure if he was serious. The dragonkeeper was quite unwavering, though, and lit up as though he'd found a brilliant idea. Standing up from the puffy recliner he'd been occupying in Bill and Fleur's living room, he put one finger up and disapparated with a _crack!_

The room was silent and Bill carefully avoided his wife's gaze. Finally turning to face her, he shrugged his shoulders defeatedly. "He's excited. And dragons are pretty cute." Fleur's glower deepened and he couldn't help noticing a striking resemblance to his own mother, although he had the forethought not to say so.

A moment later, Charlie reappeared, brushing his hair out of his face and clutching a worn book bound with Muggle leather—he preferred not to use dragon hide for things.

The rest of the day was spent listening to Charlie eagerly flip through what turned out to be a dragon photo book of all the creatures he'd worked with over the years. It turned out his work in Romania involved a much wider variety of dragons than Bill or Fleur had realized and seeing the moving pictures of the majestic beasts was mesmerizing. One dragon in particular stood out, since there were pictures of it as a very young hatchling, all the way until early adulthood. The last photo was Charlie and his crew releasing it into the wild.

"Zat is ze only one you 'ave so many pictures of. Why is 'e so special?" Fleur asked, pointing. Charlie beamed and nodded.

"That one was a beauty. We got him just a few weeks after he was hatched. From Hagrid actually."

"From 'Agrid?"

"Yeah. Ron asked us to pick him up. Blimey, that must've been his first year at Hogwarts. Kid's always in trouble. I wonder if I might convince he and Hermione to name _their_ baby after a dragon…." He was quiet for a moment, apparently pondering Hermione's disposition and deciding against a serious attempt. "Anyway, that's Norberta. Hagrid called her Norbert but we found it was a girl!" He laughed proudly and Fleur and Bill exchanged an awkward glance.

If Bill was a father—and Victoire tugging on his trouser leg certainly proved he was—then Charlie was an old patriarch, looking on proudly at his family. Or brood, as the case may be.

"Norbert," Fleur struggled, the pronunciation coming easier since she spent so much time using English now. "That might—"

Unfortunately, her next words were cut short as a contraction overcame her and her water broke suddenly. Charlie's face went white and he gaped at his sister-in-law as Bill jumped up to retrieve an overnight bag they had packed.

"Sorry, brother, time to go!" He shouted, ushering his wife into the fireplace and disappearing with her to _"St. Mungo's!"_ with a blaze of green fire. Victoire seemed unperturbed and simply began pulling on Charlie's leg instead.

* * *

Beaming proudly, with small tears in his eyes, Hagrid smiled at the bundle in his arms. "An' that's how you got yer name, see, little Norbert? It's a right good'un too if ya as' me! But tha's no' even the bes' par'! Lemme tell you abou' the time yer Uncle Charlie le' me visit Norberta!"

The Weasleys smiled as the old groundskeeper went on, chatting and laughing as they dug into the celebratory cake. It was, of course, shaped like a dragon.

"Norwegian Ridgeback," Charlie insisted.


	9. Bonus Round: Sherlock Crossover

**A/N: This isn't my stuff! :)**

 **Ravenclaw HOH**

 **BONUS Round: Theme (Sherlock), Prompt 1 ("If you say that once more, I am going to lose it,"), Prompt 2 (Shattering glass).**

 **W/C: 1972**

 _Ah, John. The most luminous goldfish ever to befriend the Holmes brothers. It really isn't so strange that he accepted these new developments without much question, considering the variety of other things he'd learned to love about Sherlock in particular. Besides, the detective's eccentricities seemed almost reasonable if he was a Wizard._

 _"Would have been a Wizard," Sherlock clarifies sourly. "They snapped my wand fifth year."_

 _"Why would they—?"_

 _"Oh," he sighs, pondering something distant. "Don't worry about that."_

* * *

It wasn't very often that unbelievable things happened to Sherlock Holmes while Dr. John Watson was around. Indeed, John considered Sherlock to have a rather boring existence between cases, and preferred to occupy himself away from the flat whenever there was the opportunity. As such, he was typically not home on the weekends, although he would usually remain close enough that a text from Sherlock and a cabby ride would get him back to 221B quickly should the need arise.

This particular weekend, however, John had little else to do but read the daily horoscopes, his guilty pleasure, and enjoy the sunshine which warmed the little flat with the distinct glow of a summer morning in London. Sherlock had been acting rather odd all morning, but since even his usual behaviour was rather odd, John hadn't considered it noteworthy.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" John commented, peering out the window. "You don't think we'll have any clients, do you?" It would be nice if his one day in remained a relaxing one, after all.

"Depends," Sherlock replied, sounding bored.

"On?"

"My owl." Peering into the fireplace from his usual seat, Sherlock didn't so much as glance up at John, who laughed sharply.

"Better not be any bloody owls in this flat…." He muttered.

Sherlock flicked his eyes towards his friend, but only for a moment. "Oh, don't worry about that."

Sherlock seemed to pride himself on his crypticism, but John thought he was rather like a glass house- or palace, as the case may be- which would not be particularly difficult to see through and not particularly difficult to break. He decided not to shatter the illusion, and the conversation was dropped.

John returned to his seat a moment later, eagerly digging into the plate of biscuits Mrs. Hudson had left for them that morning. With the sort of timing that only a particularly unlucky man is capable of, he opened his mouth to say something and inhaled a swift mouthful of soot as the fireplace erupted in green flames.

Coughing wildly, he leapt from his chair, reaching the far wall of the room with amazing speed. John wasn't sure if he failed to greet the strange blonde woman that emerged from the flames because he was too shocked, or because he was still choking. Whatever the case, Sherlock took up the responsibility. He rose slowly from his chair, straightened his blazer, and cocked his head.

"I see my owl was too late, then," Sherlock nodded politely as he offered a hand to help the woman climb out of the fireplace. "Or did Mycroft intercept it?"

"Oh please," she beamed, her voice high and breathy like the kind that might come out of a child. "The Minister has better things to do than meddle with my mail."

"Even so. As you can see, there are…ah.. others. John. This is. Others. I have others here." Sherlock cleared his throat, and fluttered awkwardly for a moment.

The woman smirked softly, her expression settling into something like bliss, although there was no indication she had anything to be happy about. She'd just stepped out of a fireplace after all.

Extending one small hand towards the doctor, she made a number of short strides across the room and waited for him to shake her hand. When he made no move to do so, she leaned in and hugged him instead.

"Theresa May," he blurted out suddenly.

Sherlock's mouth twitched and he turned back towards the fireplace.

"I'm sorry?" The woman giggled.

"The Minister. The Prime Minister is Theresa May. Mycroft's not—" Sherlock's laugh cut him off, and he looked up to see his friend turned back to face him, the room suddenly clean. Hadn't it been a mess a moment ago? Covered with soot and shattered glass from a frame that fell off the mantle?

"Don't worry about that," the detective pressed his lips together, almost a frown and almost a smile.

John stared at his friend, hardly able to believe there was truly anyone else in the room to look at. Finally shoving his gaze back in her direction, he was surprised to notice radish-shaped earrings dangling off her small ears. Her hair was shiny platinum and fell in tumbles to almost her knees.

"I'm Luna, by the way. It's a delight to make your acquaintance, John Watson."

* * *

It seemed that John Watson was right to worry that a case may show itself that sunny weekend. Unfortunately, he understood very little of what was being asked of them. Sherlock's repeated "don't worry about that," whenever anything apparently nonsensical came up was not helpful either.

"You know him better than anyone," Luna commented, her voice strangely stern despite her current preoccupation with a puffy yellow scarf she was knitting. John hadn't seen her retrieve it from anywhere, but suddenly she was knitting and he didn't have the wits about him to ask."The implications of this are massive! You can't let it go on."

"Mycroft's problems are not my problems," Sherlock responded, maintaining the same sense of distance he always did when he spoke of his brother. "Besides, aren't you the expert on wrackspurts?"

John cocked his head. "Wrack-?"

"Don't worry about that."

"The problem," Luna went on, waving a hand. John was certain the scarf continued knitting itself but she returned both hands to the needles too fast for him to be sure. "Is that knowing about wrackspurts isn't enough. I know lots about wrackspurts. I don't know much about Mycroft Holmes."

"Still not my problem. You've always been fine before, why do you need my help now?"

"Because the Minister of Magic has wrackspurts and you're his brother!" She shouted. Well, nearly shouted, as her voice was much too soft to be considered more than a harsh whisper.

"Minister of—"

"Don't worry about that."

"If you say that once more, I'm going to lose it, Sherlock." He fixed both parties with a steely stare. "Now," he insisted slowly, "what are we going to do about Mycroft?"

Luna smiled, pleased at John's willingness to help. "Wrackspurts," she explained, "float in through your ears. They make your brain all fuzzy—big problem for Mycroft, you can imagine, we really need a Minister in better condition." She shot a pointed glance towards Sherlock but he ignored it.

"Unfortunately," Sherlock began, exasperated and begrudgingly impressed by the strange woman, "is that Luna has theorized—and nearly proven—that wrackspurts are only pushed out by an abundance of happy thoughts. Can you imagine Mycroft having many happy thoughts?" He almost laughed but John shook his head.

"Not good," he mouthed.

"Right. Well, anyway. Since he went from Muggle Liaison to Minister of Magic, he's been...well he loves running the government—always has—but I'm sure you've noticed a change in his mood recently. Right alongside his weight loss."

"Muggle…?" Sherlock cast him a worn glance and he went on. "Neither of you have any ideas?" He asked, a small smile creeping onto his face as they both shook their heads. "Well, Luna, you came to the right place."

* * *

He had not thought to consider what trouble it might be to go shopping with a witch. Sherlock drew enough attention but Luna could've garnered the Queen's notice just by walking into the supermarket. She was unfortunately mesmerized with the pickled foods shelves, and managed to knock down a variety of onions, pickles, cabbage, and olives in her eagerness to climb high enough to reach the jar of pigs' feet on the top shelf.

He laughed uncomfortably as the fallen jars shattered on the floor. Sherlock seemed characteristically unperturbed, leaning back against the opposite side of the aisle and watching with a small smirk.

"I bet I could make potions with these! I wonder what their magical properties are…." Luna commented, delighted.

John laughed once and pulled the jar away from her. "Ah, no."

"Do you…?" She mimed eating the pigs feet.

"I suppose…maybe… no? I think people make soup or something. I dunno. But Mycroft likes peanut butter, so grab that." He pointed to a jar of Skippy, wondering silently why they kept condiments and spreads so close to pickled pigs' feet. He shook his head.

Stepping over the shattered glass and bits of pickled foods, he led Luna and Sherlock to the next aisle and had Sherlock pick out a few boxes of powdered donuts, cakes, and biscuits.

The food job done, John led them further to the magazine aisle and ordered them to help search for something that featured old films. Sherlock flipped his collar, clearly disgruntled, and began searching defiantly in a section clearly labeled Sports.

"Accio!" Luna whispered.

When John turned to face her, she was tucking something like a stick into her bag and clutching a magazine featuring a black and white picture of an actress he vaguely recognized. She smiled innocently and placed the magazine in the basket. He eyed her a bit apprehensively but moved on.

"Last thing," he said, approaching the checkout clerk. "Cigarettes. Sherlock?"

The detective sighed and swept his eyes across the display. "Can I have one at least-?"

"Nooooope. Pick."

Luna watched, fascinated, but didn't interrupt.

Sherlock pointed at a pack of Benson & Hodges and the clerk nodded, bending down to retrieve a box from under the counter. "Low tar!" Sherlock added.

"Nope. No." The clerk popped her head up, eyeing the two. "Just, just get the...ah…. The normal ones? Right. Yes. Normal. This is normal."

* * *

After dragging Luna away from the automatic doors on their way out, they finally made it back to 221B. Grumbling and thumping, Sherlock packed a bag full of the items they'd purchased and handed it to Luna, who smiled gratefully. The detective rolled his eyes and plopped into his chair, pulling his feet up onto the seat.

"Thank you, John Watson." Luna smiled, throwing her arms around him again. "I had no idea Muggle doctors could do so much good!" She shuddered at some mental association she apparently carried and reached two small fingers into a jar around her neck, where she retrieved a pinch of sand.

Crawling into the fireplace and sitting cross-legged where a log might normally go, she smiled again and leaned forward to wave goodbye. Unfortunately the strap around her neck caught on something or other and the jar slipped free, shattering in the corner of the hearth. Green sparks danced around her legs as the powder inside drifted across the stone, and she frowned, keeping her lips tightly shut.

With one last glance at John and Sherlock, Luna shrugged her shoulders, shouted "The Ministry!" and disappeared with another whirl of green flames and puff of soot.

John didn't ask any questions, although he couldn't help smiling when they received a grateful letter from the strange blonde woman the next day. The moment was short-lived when a second letter, this one in a neatly sealed red envelope, fluttered through a window—apparently by owl? But that was silly—and Mycroft's shouts erupted, loud enough to shatter glass, insisting that he was "PERFECTLY FINE WITHOUT MY BABY BROTHER'S HELP! ALTHOUGH THESE SWEETS ARE QUITE GOOD, THANK YOU VERY MUCH."

"A Howler," Sherlock whispered, staring at the heap of burning letter when the berating was over.

"Oh, Sherlock," John muttered, opening his newspaper to the Horoscopes. "Don't worry about that."


	10. Round 2: Short

**A/N: None of this is mine.**

 **Ravenclaw HOH.**

 **Short Story: "It's always a competition with you, isn't it?**

 **W/C: 1090**

Her long hair flowed evenly down her back, like a shimmering waterfall of the most perfect black satin. God she was beautiful. She was so full of fire and smiles and all the things he didn't know he needed so much. There were so many things to be scared of in this world and she had given him a reason to fight through it all. How could he have let everything get to this point?

All because he couldn't get it out of his head that maybe he wasn't the one she wanted to be with. There were loads of wizards out there, and he'd noticed how she'd caught Harry's eye.

He opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again, not sure what to say anyway. Her small nose, pert and soft, wrinkled gently when she looked at him and disappointment was plain on her face. He frowned.

"Cho, I—"

"Don't." One small hand flew up as if she could physically stop the apology he was trying so hard to get out. "Don't even try it, Cedric."

The way his name sat in her mouth felt dangerous. It had so often been gentle and sweet, like she was holding him in her arms when she spoke his name. But now it was sharp and harsh, anger tainting her voice.

His head was filled with all the things he wanted to say, but he couldn't think of anything that seemed right. He knew he had hurt her and wanted to fix it, but didn't know how. "I really am sorry…."

She scoffed loudly and put her arms in the air, begging for some sort of reparation. "You're sorry? Do you even know what you're sorry for?"

"For—well because I—you're hurt and I—"

"You don't even know!" She frowned and put her arms across her chest, crossing them sadly. "Cedric, you thought I was cheating on you. You couldn't even just trust me?"

Ah, there it was. The pain in her voice was palpable but Cedric was just so happy to know what to apologize for that he almost didn't care. He thought of all the reasons he thought she'd maybe been cheating and was surprised to realize there weren't very many. Any, really. But it certainly wasn't Cedric Diggory making a show of himself on the front of the Daily Prophet, and he doubted whether he could really compete with the boy wonder. It didn't strike him as too important that Harry was 14 years old.

"Of course, I can trust you," he urged, leaning forward and running one hand through his honey-colored hair, a small smile begging a little forgiveness. He hoped to be charming but her reaction proved quite otherwise.

"I know you can trust me!" She shouted, leaping to her feet and glaring down at him. He wanted to stand so that he was taller again. His height was something he was proud of, particularly since he was taller than Harry….

There it was again! Ugh. And he could see she was mad. She was so mad. And she was so beautiful when she was mad. Why couldn't he get this through his head?

"I know I can! That's not—no. It's just…you're always with Harry and—"

"Always with Harry?!"

Uh-oh. He hadn't meant to say it. He hadn't meant to admit to his jealousy, especially now that he was realizing how unfounded it was. Cho's voice rose even higher, turning into a shriek as she seemed to swell with anger and indignation.

She continued: "I hardly see Harry! It's always a competition with you, isn't it?!"

He closed his eyes and thought desperately for something to say. Something to make this right. The worst, of course, was that he knew she was right. Her anger was thick but her sadness was worse.

"Cedric, if I liked Harry, I wouldn't have gone to the Ball with you, would I? And I wouldn't have been your prize in the lake, would I? And I wouldn't be preparing _right now_ a list of spells to help you practice for the final next week, would I?" He flinched, feeling the sting of each question as it hurled a pointed accusation.

"I'm sorry for hurting you, and I'm sorry I didn't trust you," he finally whispered, reaching up to clasp her hands together in his.

She sighed settling back into her seat and fixing him with a searching gaze. Those beautiful eyes…damn those beautiful eyes. Warmth flooded his body and he settled forward, kneeling against her legs.

"Can we make this work, Cedric? I—I just—" Her voice was heavy, but full of hope. He could tell she was still mad- of course she was still mad- but she was ready to forgive him if he was ready to commit.

Having cut herself off, she remained quiet, a small blush creeping across her cheeks.

Cedric smiled, pushing himself into a crouch and kissing her firmly on the lips. She smirked softly against his mouth, still stiff with reluctance, and he pulled back enough to speak, their noses still touching. He locked eyes with her until she couldn't help smiling back.

"I love you," he whispered, grinning still.

"Cedric!" She jumped, pulling back sharply. His smile remained in place and he laughed gently.

"I had to tell you, I couldn't keep it to myself anymore."

She chewed on her bottom lip nervously and her eyebrows came together. "But what if—"

He hushed her gently and pulled her onto his lap, taking her seat from her. "No 'ifs'. Nothing's going to go wrong. We still have a week to prepare for this silly thing! And I have you to help me. What could happen?" He nuzzled gently against her shoulder, rubbing his nose on her and making soft kissing sounds.

"I'll tell you what," she said, turning to face him and planting another firm kiss on his lips. "If you win this thing, I'll say it back."

He opened his mouth in feigned—alright mostly feigned—shock. "And what if I don't win?"

"Well, then we'll have to break up. I'm only in this for the money." She nodded confidently.

"Oh, right, I forgot." Cho smiled and he kissed her again. "Well I guess we should get back to work then, _my love_. I expect to get quite the award when we win this thing!"

"Geez," she commented, settling back into her chair as he stood. "It's always a competition with you, isn't it?"


	11. Bonus Round: Hunger Games Crossover

**Author's Note: All the things are JKR's and Suzanne Collins'.**

 **Ravenclaw (HOH)**

 **Bonus Round: Hunger Games, (How did I end up here?) (Alarm Clock)**

 **W/C: 1982**

* * *

Time is such a funny thing. It moves on and on and often leaves people behind.

The girl on fire had left many people behind.

It had been several years since Peeta had passed away, and life wasn't the same without him. He'd done so much to keep her safe and whole and the world was worse off without him. Their kids were good but kids have a way of getting busy with their own lives. Katniss didn't have much of a life worth getting busy with.

Taking to the streets was easy with a fleet fleet of hovercrafts at her disposal, and she spent most of her time on the streets thinking of the past. Of Prim, of Rue, of all the boys and girls who didn't get to see the rebellion win. Of her mom. Of Gale and Peeta.

Of herself.

Picking her way through the ruins of some old city she didn't know the name of, she knew she wasn't the same girl who grew up in District 12 with all the fire of a girl who'd been wronged since day one. Even now, with all the freedom in the world, she couldn't help feeling cheated that she had been born when she was. She'd seen old books and maps, and knew that Europe must have been lovely once. Of course, there were small groups that had built themselves back up into new world communities, but much of the more rural areas remained in disarray.

She tried not to think of the lives that had been lost in the wars and the disasters when she sorted through the old homes and found the neatest trinkets to take back home, but sometimes she couldn't help it, particularly when their bodies were still there. She shuddered.

A few former towns seemed to be…different somehow. There was a strength about the old stones, and sometimes even old skeletons, that was wholly different from anywhere else she'd been. She'd found a few of the skeletons with charred sticks in their hands as if they'd been defending themselves with the slim piece of wood. She couldn't help being amazed by the craftsmanship of the strange weapons—if that's what they were—and even though most of the designs had been burnt off, it was evident that they were very straight, very smooth, and very powerful.

Stepping carefully through the home of one such family, she made her way through their belongings. Most of the items were badly burned, but in the bedroom was a dresser with one drawer kept perfectly preserved. The soft paint and golden handle stuck out oddly amidst the rubble and Katniss was immediately drawn to it. Worried that there was a trap in place, she took a moment to look for something to open it with, providing extra distance if the drawer was armed with a bomb.

 _So many bombs. Years and years of explosions. And Prim…_

The only thing she could find was a strange stick that had rolled out of the hand of someone who had apparently died in bed. Grateful to not have to pry it from them, Katniss retrieved the stick and clutched what seemed to be the handle. Despite the weather, the stick was warm against her palm and felt _right._ She shook her head, surprised at the sudden clarity of thought she possessed, and returned to the dresser.

Positioning herself at a safe angle, she stuck the end of the stick into the drawer handle and maneuvered the drawer gently open.

 _Alohamora._ Just a whisper. A small thought that crept through her mind, entirely not of her own volition. But it felt right. Like the wand in her hand. Wand? The stick.

The drawer slid open seamlessly.

A soft ticking, like a small clock, poured out with a faint gold light. It seemed strange. Too strange. But Katniss found herself drawn forward even further, and she gently reached a hand inside to retrieve the contents. She found a small gold chain and an hourglass shaped pendant in a rotary. It was heavy and seemed to hum gently against her fingers.

Without really thinking about it, she placed the chain around her neck and brushed the surface of the hourglass. _Time,_ she thought, _is such a funny thing._

Feeling settled, she stepped back through the ruins and into the courtyard. It was early afternoon and the sun warmed her face as she moved to a nearby bench and sat, examining the device more closely. A dial, like that of a watch, stuck out to her on the side of one of the rotaries and she pondered for a moment.

 _An alarm clock? Some sort of ancient pocketwatch style alarm clock?_ She questioned, running through her memories of old books and atlases she'd seen about the world before the war. _I wonder if it works…._

Katniss spun the dial. Once, twice, three times. She stared, shocked, when it continued to spin, rotating quicker than she could have thought possible. The world around her seemed to melt and shift, as if whole days were shifting past her. She thought of throwing the device but something stayed her hand. Just as well because everything settled again, just as fast as it had shifted.

It was night time now, though, and the houses were whole. A small building—maybe a Church—was playing Christmas hymns, and the ground was covered in snow. The bench she still occupied was now placed at the entrance to a cemetery. A war memorial adorned the center of the square, although the more she looked at it the more she felt like she was looking past it, and seeing a very different statue instead.

 _How did I end up here?_ She thought, more than a bit concerned for her sanity.

What stuck out the most to her was the sheer number of people moving about the village. There hadn't been this many people in this part of Europe for decades, possibly centuries. From behind her, inside the cemetery, a small voice chimed very gently.

"Harry, they're here... right here."

Katniss turned to see a man and woman in the cemetery, just a few rows in. The woman stood before a gleaming white marble tombstone and the man picked his way towards her. They exchanged words quietly and tearfully. Grief hunched the shoulders of the man, who rocked with barely restrained agony.

She watched quietly, standing and staring, and wondering what in the hell was going on.

They turned to leave but turned back for a moment and the woman pulled one of those perfectly straight sticks from her pocket and drew a small circle in the air. To Katniss' shock, a perfect wreath of Christmas roses blossomed into the man's hands. He placed it on the tomb and set his shoulders.

They began the walk back to the entrance of the cemetery and were nearly there when the woman spoke suddenly.

"Harry, stop."

"What's wrong?"

"There's someone there. Someone watching us. I can tell. There, over by the bushes."

Katniss froze, fear gripping her heart. She'd been found out and she doubted whether the woman was only capable of springing flowers out of nothing.

"Are you sure?" The man whispered.

"I saw something move. I could have sworn I did..."

"We look like Muggles." _Muggles?_

"Muggles who've just been laying flowers on your parents' grave? Harry, I'm sure there's someone over there!"

Katniss stepped out, her hands raised above her head. It appeared as a surrender pose, and was intended to be, but the knife she kept strapped to her back was also more accessible from this stance, and she appreciated the security it offered. She opened her mouth to speak but the woman spoke first, pointing at Katniss' chest.

"You have a Time-Turner!" She said, urgently. "But it looks…wrong."

"I just want to know where I am," Katniss replied.

The pair exchanged a glance and gestured for Katniss to sit down on the bench she'd previously occupied. The woman sat beside her and the man, Harry, remained standing, keeping a sharp eye out.

"This is Godric's Hollow," the woman explained gently. "It's Christmas Eve, 1997."

"No!" Katniss couldn't help shouting as panic bubbled in her throat and spilled into her voice. "It's 2347!"

The woman gasped and exchanged another glance with the man. "Did you turn a dial on that…necklace?"

"Yes…."

"How many times?" She urged.

"I'm not sure," Katniss thought back but knew she couldn't have kept up. "I lost count. I spun it three times and then it just kept going."

* * *

They didn't talk long. Harry and Hermione. Odd characters. Harry had lost his parents and the world was at war. Katniss couldn't help wondering if it was the war that would cause the destruction of everything and eventually allowed the people of the Capitol to take over, but the years didn't match and she wasn't worried for them.

Luckily, Hermione was quite well-versed on Time-Turners.

"This one is different, though," she said, examining the device much as Katniss had done.

They had run through the _hows_ and _whats_ and Katniss just nodded in response.

Tapping the device with her wand—apparently it was a wand after all—Hermione finally announced what Katniss hoped to hear: "I think you can go back."

"What?" Harry interrupted. "Hermione, you said Time-Turners only go backward. That's why they're so dangerous."

"Ours, yes, but this one is different. Someone must have created it in the future, because it's different than anything I've seen before and we know the others were all destroyed."

"Maybe you'll invent it now that you've seen it," Katniss laughed, trying to make a joke.

Hermione nodded in response. "Yes, that's very likely."

It was Katniss' turn to look at Harry now, and they exchanged a brief look before Hermione returned the device to Katniss' hands.

"I believe that if you think hard of where you'd like to go—or when, I suppose—and turn the dial, it will take you back there. You can go back to your time!" She smiled, delighted, and then frowned when Katniss' face fell.

"What if I don't want to go back?" She whispered. "Could I go into my own past…?"

Hermione thought for a moment. "It'd be dangerous…very dangerous. But…I think you could, yes."

Harry looked shocked by Hermione's words but seemed to understand Katniss' desires. Tears still crusted onto his face, he seemed the kind of man who understood very much the burning need to see someone just one more time.

"Thank you," she whispered, images of her father filling her mind, "Thank you so much." She closed her eyes and spun the dial.

Once, twice, three times.

Harry and Hermione stared at the spot where Katniss had been. The music from the Church had grown louder, but their vow was silent. Somehow, they knew they'd never speak of that moment again.

When Katniss opened her eyes, she was deep underground. Dark black soot filled the air but the miners had bright enough lights that she could make out the face of her father, working hard just a few feet away.

"Daddy?" She whispered, tears springing to her eyes. In one bound, she leapt forward, into the arms of someone she never thought she'd see again. "I've missed you so much." Her voice was thick as she hugged him, his arms strong and familiar.

"Who're-?" He stepped back to examine her more closely and she beamed, happier than she could remember just to see his face.

Katniss stepped back, too, and bumped into a lantern, knocking it off the boulder it was positioned on. She didn't have time to realize what was happening when suddenly the lantern caught fire and exploded.

In another part of District 12, young Katniss Everdeen and her family received word that Mr. Everdeen and the other miners wouldn't be coming home.


	12. Round 2: Theme

****Content warning: Subjects may be difficult for some readers, and includes mention of abortion. Content is intended to be T-rated, and nothing is explored graphically.****

 **A/N: This isn't mine.**

 **House: Ravenclaw (HOH)**

 **Category: Theme (Family)**

 **Prompt: Bellatrix Lestrange**

 **W/C: 1058**

 _Bella, sweet Bella._

So many years and so many dreams.

Pride for her family legacy ran deep, and her veins were as Black as her name. It was no surprise that her priorities reflected this, and she spent most of her time at Hogwarts refining her skills and learning everything she could learn. She would be perfect, no matter what it cost her.

Of course, she didn't know what that really meant.

That's the funny thing about passion—it can be so single-minded that you don't even realize your passion for something else until you've lost every opportunity to get there. That was okay, she supposed. Single-mindedness was better anyway.

It was no surprise that Bella fostered a healthy dose of envy for her classmates who came from more…normal…households. She had a legacy in the Black name, but not much of a family. She wasn't even sure what "family" really meant.

As much as she wanted one, she didn't actually mean to start one, though.

Fifth year was hard for every student, preparing as they were for their OWLs. It was impossible to think of anything else and lots of things that were normally routine were quickly skipped over. She almost never ate all three meals a day, she went to bed late, and, apparently, she stopped taking her potion.

All the girls her age took the potion. Who wouldn't want to skip the cramps and the acne every month? And, of course, there was the happy side effect of pregnancy prevention.

She didn't notice when she "skipped"—that happened sometimes, and with a bad diet and an overload of stress, it really wasn't surprising. But then she kept skipping, and suddenly it had been almost six months and she couldn't keep pretending her skirts fit the same way.

The memory that stood out the most from the whole thing was telling her boyfriend. Rodolphus was sweet; of course he was sweet. He was always so sweet. But he knew as well as she did that they couldn't keep it.

 _It._ The baby. They couldn't keep the baby.

It was Bella's idea, but Rodolphus was happy to help. He was always so supportive, and he never left her side after that. It was no wonder that years later people spoke in hushed whispers of the devotion of the Lestranges.

None of it really made sense. There was a book in the restricted section, a spell, and a simple potion. Too simple. It all seemed too simple. The book said there could be side effects, especially for "late" usages—six months was a long time to wait and she'd wish later that she'd known sooner. That she could've done something sooner.

 _Bella, sweet Bella._

She watched, fascinated, as Rodolphus performed the spell, carefully tapping and circling her belly with his wand. It was strange to think there was a baby in there, and she hoped it wouldn't hurt too much when it disappeared.

She knew the risk, but she couldn't chance alienating herself from her family or damaging the family name. Later she'd laugh at the irony.

It was years before she really understood that she wouldn't have a family. She watched desperately as Andromeda had a baby, and then as Narcissa had a baby. But she and Rodolphus didn't have a baby. They could never have a baby.

They never talked about the spell that made it all go wrong, and they never talked about the wedge it drove between them. They never talked about what might have been, even when the day came where _It_ would have been 15, and _It_ would have been entering _Its_ fifth year. Maybe with dark hair and bright eyes like Bella used to have. She hoped _It_ wouldn't have had the same sunken eyes that years of suffering without a family had given her.

 _Bella, sweet Bella._

So many years and so many children.

It didn't help, of course, but she could almost believe it did. If she couldn't have her baby, other women didn't get to have theirs. She took lots of babies from their mothers.

A flash of green light and a pale face frozen in horror.

Sometimes she took mothers from their babies. She remembered thinking only of their new baby boy when she tortured a set of aurors. Bella made sure that woman couldn't be a mother anymore.

If she couldn't be a mother….

But then she was in Azkaban and all she could think about was her baby. Her sweet little baby.

When the opportunity came to escape, of course she took it. And of course she was excited to serve the Dark Lord again. She'd been faithful. So faithful. _He_ was her family now, and she'd do whatever he wanted. Just to serve the Dark Lord.

She thought she was in love again. She'd fallen out of love with Rodolophus from the beginning and she knew he didn't love her anymore either. But Tom…sweet Tom. He was so powerful and so strangely human. He knew pain, he knew fear, and he knew the toll of great personal loss. It was like a pool of water in the desert to serve the Dark Lord and she served him the most loyally and the most fiercely.

There was a wand, and a spell, and this one went right. Her tummy tingled when Tom ran the his wand across it and then they were together and there was a baby. Rodolphus would understand—he was always so understanding.

She wasn't sure if Tom loved her the way she loved him, but she knew he loved her in some way because she could feel it. In the ends of her fingers and the tip of her tongue and the soft breath against her neck. Love certainly was a magical thing.

And she had a girl.

A sweet baby girl.

Bella finally had a family. She could hardly let the girl out of her arms, and certainly wouldn't have if she'd known she'd leave her child an orphan.

Just one last mistake. One last time, trying to take a child—that Weasley girl—away from her mother. But she and Molly Weasley seemed to have a lot in common, and neither of them was ready to stand aside.

There was a spell and a wand and the world went away.


	13. Round 2: Fourth Story

**A/N: This isn't mine.**

 **Ravenclaw (HOH)**

 **Themed (Family)**

 **Professor Sprout**

 **671 words.**

* * *

"Summer was her favorite season. When all the students went home and time trickled by in the company of her peers and her plants, Professor Sprout felt utterly at home. She particularly loved the sunshine, knowing that it fed her garden. Often, she spent evenings walking the forest's trails with Hagrid—he discussing the creatures, she the plants. Sometimes, they'd find something that was sort of both." The freckle-faced girl with red braids sat down, tears in her eyes. A man stood up and stepped to the front.

"I won't forget when Professor Sprout told me she'd thought I'd make a good herbologist. It was my second year and I really wasn't doing well in many of my classes. I'm Muggle born, so I wasn't able to practice a lot during the summer and my parents didn't really understand, so I had no one to talk to. I was struggling in my classes, having forgotten so much from the last school year. She came up to me one day and told me she was glad to work with a student who had such a natural talent with the plants. I became a herbologist because of you, Professor Sprout. Thank you." His voice caught in his throat as he finished and returned to his seat. An older woman stood and took his place.

"Professor Sprout didn't have a family—she'd lost a lot of people during the first Wizarding War and had dedicated her life to her work. But she didn't see it that way. The _venomous tentacula_ in one corner of Greenhouse 3 and the _mandrakes_ in Greenhouse 2, those were her family. Each individual plant was her child and she devoted herself entirely to their cause. She put that passion in her students and I don't know anyone who didn't come away from her classes knowing that they had learned something or contributed somehow." She, too, wracked with sobs, took a seat.

A gangly young man, tears already in his eyes, began softly:

"She gave me everything. My nan- well my nan wasn't very supportive. I was really lonely at Hogwarts and Professor Sprout kinda became my family. I wouldn't be where I am if not for her. I just hate that she doesn't get to see it."

* * *

It was a simple ceremony on a dreary day when they said goodbye. A black coffin with green vines detailed onto the lid. It seemed so silly to paint a coffin, and the students who laid their goodbyes on top of it couldn't help the strange sticky feeling in their throats that always comes with surreal moments like those.

There was unspoken agreement that they wouldn't lay roses on her coffin or on her grave. They brought potted plants and fancy wreaths. Some of them magicked their offerings, but most of them brought something that reminded them of their favorite class with the cheerful lady. It was lucky, probably, that no one brought anything too dangerous.

No one was surprised that so many people showed up. It only made sense, of course, when so many people considered themselves family. Students, peers, and colleagues all showed up and every one of them had a story to tell. Former students brought their children or grandchildren, and even those who had never met her knew how special she'd been.

Neville Longbottom took it the hardest. When the service was done and he'd disapparated away from the rolling hills of the cemetery he knew he'd visit again, he could hardly bring himself to return to what was now, irrevocably, his own office. Of course, he'd held the title of Professor Longbottom for several years now, and could hardly say it was anyone else's office.

But the desks were arranged just as neatly as she had left them, the same soft smell of earth seeped through the same walls, and the windows peered across the same Hogwarts. Except it wasn't the same Hogwarts, really. Not without the only woman who had ever truly been his family.

"Goodbye, Professor Sprout."


	14. Round 3: Drabble

**A/N: This isn't mine.**

 **House: Ravenclaw (HOH)**

 **Category: Drabble**

 **Prompt: Breakfast**

 **W/C: 598**

Standing in the small kitchen, Seamus Finnigan had entirely no idea what to do. When the idea struck him, he'd been so proud of his thoughtfulness that he'd quickly extricated himself from bed, smiled down at Dean, and climbed down the stairs to begin. But of course, he didn't actually know what to make.

He was quite certain that Dean would be surprised and pleased to have breakfast in bed, but precisely what Dean would like to eat for breakfast was a mystery to him. The easy choice was eggs—he knew they were in the fridge and he knew how to cook them—but would Dean prefer scrambled? Over-easy? Over-medium? Hard-boiled? Poached? No, eggs were too hard.

Deciding that everyone loved French Toast, Seamus thought i would be a better choice. However, he quickly realized that everyone loved _homemade_ French Toast the way they grew up with it. Some people preferred cinnamon, others nutmeg; some people preferred syrup, others powdered sugar. French Toast was out then.

He didn't even want to start the "waffles versus pancakes" debate, and ruled them out just as quickly. Unfortunately, this limited his options down to fresh fruit or yogurt, neither of which exactly said " _I love you and I'm glad we stayed the night together."_

 _We stayed the night together,_ Seamus smiled to himself. He couldn't get it out of his head that Dean really truly cared for him as well. Of course, he had had no idea that breakfast would be the hardest part of staying the night for the first time. It didn't help that Dean still preferred some of the Muggle utilities he'd grown up with, and many of the devices adorning the counters were things Seamus had never even seen before, let alone knew how to work.

 _Simple then,_ he thought. _It'll have to be simple._

Which brought him to where he was, standing in the middle of a strange kitchen in the dark in his underwear. Traffic rushed softly outside, and the only sounds other than his own panic was the early-morning din of people entering the London streets and beginning their day. But what was the best way to begin his and Dean's?

Finally, dejected, he climbed back up the stairs to Dean's room. It seemed best to just wait for them to both be awake and to make the decision together. Shuffling and sighing, Seamus made his way down the hall and pushed the door open gently. Dean, however, was not alone.

Piled on top of the bed were what seemed to be bagels, muffins, plates of eggs, hashbrowns, toast, omlettes, and several different cups of coffees and teas from different shops around London. Dean stood beside the cornucopia, fully dressed and fidgeting nervously.

"I wasn't sure what you'd like to eat," he mumbled awkwardly. "So when you got up for the bathroom, I- I uh-"

"You got breakfast," Seamus breathed, a wide smile creeping across his face. "You apparated all over town and got breakfast for us."

Dean grinned sheepishly and nodded.

"I think," Seamus said, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling Dean down beside him, "that breakfast is my favorite meal of the day."

"Really? Why's that?"

"You remember at Hogwarts when we'd go down for breakfast and there was everything imaginable to eat just magicked in front of us each morning?"

Dean nodded.

"This is a bit like that."

"Well," Dean admonished, "I'm no house-elf."

Seamus held up a bag of pastries, labeled in bold letters with the shop's name and logo. "That's right," he said. "This is even better."


	15. Round 3: Short

**A/N: This world is JKR's.**

 **A/N pt 2: A few readers commented that the Dementors in book/movie 5 were actually sent by Umbridge, and not Voldemort, and that this change might be sort of leaning towards AU. It was always my assumption that Umbridge was acting under the influence- direct or indirect- of Voldemort or his followers. I don't think Umbridge would be powerful enough to send them on her own. So read this as either slightly AU, or as working under that assumption!**

 **Ravenclaw (HOH)**

 **Short**

 **Dementors**

 **998 Words**

Icy cold, like a whisper against the back of my neck, a dense fog rolls through Little Whinging, Surrey. There are two of us and the fog beckons us forward, drawing us towards what we have been assured will be an easy feast. We are tantalizingly close to our Master, although the piece of his soul that we can taste is just a fragment. It feels good to sense the pull of darkness and happiness, tidal waves that crash against us as we float hauntingly over the city.

Two boys are arguing in a tunnel and a delicious warmth seems to leak from their very beings. They are unique among humans; the pain they carry is that of much older creatures and they are so damaged by cruelty that it is no wonder when we suddenly feel stronger. Bolder. Braver. There is a light in each of them, and we shiver gratefully. It was so good of our Lord to send us here. He knows that this will buy our loyalty if it works. With so many memories dancing wonderfully before us, I have no doubt that we will succeed.

The light of happy memories and good feelings pours raucously from each of them in splintered fragments that cast prisms against us, dragging us forward. A familiar hunger gnaws at me and I want so badly to rush forward and eagerly seek the dark spots that I know will strengthen me as I consume that light. Tension pulls at my stomach and I swell, an anxious hunter with an easy prey.

It is hard to say which boy is more mouthwatering, although the smaller boy seems to be particularly tasty, and I sense my comrade being equally distracted by his distinct _flavor._ His tortured past screams at us, reeling us in with its delectable warmth. There is no doubt he would make an excellent meal and soon we will indulge ourselves. The other boy offers his own miseries and the combination is overwhelming.

I push my hand out, extending the frail bones of my finger with a thin rattle, and point at the boy. Our target. Our master. He has prepared this boy for us and dark memories feed us, strengthening and pressing us.

The Dark Lord's soul is small, but so present. It beckons us forward, so plainly offering the memories of cruelty and agony the Dark Lord has caused as a treat for hurting this boy. Such a strange boy, with a face very much like the one that swims in his head as he turns toward us. We edge ever closer to the broken host of our Master's soul, ignoring the fact that he seems to have noticed us now.

My cloaks flow around me, expressing my eagerness as well as anything, and I can feel the tension building in my chest as we pull up beside the boys. My comrade has been distracted by the other boy, who is oblivious to us. His own special brand of misery is sufficient for my comrade, but not for me. I have waited too long not to partake of this broken boy.

He turns, a look of horror already smeared plainly across his face. My hands itch to pull down my cloak and meet the boy with a kiss, but I am patient and will reap my reward justly. His eyes ravage my mutilated face as I draw near enough to feel his darkest memories. A woman's voice screams from someplace within my bones and I know he is remembering a murder. The Dark Lord had promised us this treat and containing myself has become almost impossible.

Terror grips the boy as he gropes for his wand, having fallen to the ground when the other boy pushed him, and his blind panic drives me forward even more. A fierce longing driving spikes of heat through my cold, dead chest, and I plunge to the ground alongside him.

The time has come and I revel in this opportunity, carefully and painfully licking his soul and tasting the depths of his pains. He screams now, and the sound echoes through my shoulders, sending shivers down my ancient spine.

I am careful not to drink too deeply; the Dark Lord was clear that we must not kill his host. But we are not creatures known for our self-control and it is unlikely that my suffering will be too terrible if I fail in this regard.

I reach up, grasping my hood and gently tugging it off. The memories are screaming and his face is stricken, although whether it is because of my mottled grey skin that more closely resembles a corpse than a living creature or those swimming memories is unclear to me. It is unimportant to me. Devastatingly close, I am painfully anxious and the glorious victory seems to celebrate itself in my stomach before I've even devoured the boy.

My comrade has also been teasing his prey, and the boy has fallen to the ground in a heap. The darkness rending his soul is of his own face, of memories of his own doings. He truly is his own worst enemy, and my comrade seems to tingle with anticipation.

But we have celebrated too soon. A voice, deep and emotional, booms through the tunnel and a hush tangles itself into each of us, gripping us with the same fear we cause these weak humans. A new sort of terror builds in the part of that boy who holds our Lord inside himself; the place where our Master rests is no longer filled with light but with anger as he realizes that the Boy Who Lived has cast a Patronus. Our own feelings are similar as we flee, ripping terrified through the icy air and pulling our cloaks back over our heads.

Icy cold, we dash away on a roll of fog that leaves only ice in its wake as it clears the city it had so recently consumed.


	16. Round 3: Themed

**A/N: This world is JKR's.**

 **House: Ravenclaw (HOH)**

 **Category: Themed (Escape)**

 **Prompt: WolfStar**

 **W/C: 2112**

Leaning back against a tree, Sirius put his hands behind his head and allowed an easy smile to dance across his face. It was closely mirrored on James' face as he ran his hands gently through Lily's hair, and Remus displayed his own sheepish grin as did the same with the mess of black hair Sirius wore'. The similarities between the two couples were comically abundant as they sat together in a small circle, and Lily exchanged a small wink with Remus.

"One more month," Sirius sighed happily.

"Until N.E.W.T.s?" Lily teased, sure that the rebellious young man hadn't even begun to study.

"No," he responded, his tone still light, "until the Great Escape!"

"You're already living at my house," James added. "How bloody much more do you want to escape?"

Sirius rolled his eyes, finally pulled from his delighted stupor. "All I'm saying is it'll be nice to be a proper adult and a proper wizard. Magic my way across Europe. And then me and this hot hunk of werewolf—"

"Shh!" Remus hissed, looking around nervously.

"—are going to get a place together!"

"In Godric's Hollow?" Lily asked. "James and I found a lovely little place there for after the wedding." She smiled at her fiancé and blushed softly.

Sirius smiled at Remus and shrugged gently. "Maybe. Whatever happens, there's just one more month and then we're free. I'm free."

Lily smiled and shook her head softly. "Oh," she chirped, "I almost forgot! Did you hear about Kennifer and Marcubeth?"

Remus, Sirius, and James exchanged confused glances.

"What're you going on about, Lil?" Sirius finally asked.

"Keagan Thomas and Jennifer Williams started dating, and so did Marcus Ribbons and Elisabeth Wright! Kennifer and Marcubeth!"

"Oh God," he responded, "can we escape that too? Leave the awful couple names at Hogwarts? What are you two, then, Lames?"

Remus laughed softly and James snickered for a moment before being cut off by Lily's reproachful glance.

"No," she huffed, "we're Jily."

James' jaw dropped and the other two guffawed at his face.

"We can't have a couples name, Lily, that's ridiculous!"

"Well you don't have to use it. It's just what people call us." She turned so she could see him better and pulled a face.

"Who calls you that? Does anyone actually do that?" Sirius laughed, holding a hand to his side as if he the concept positively gave him stitches.

"Of course. You two have one, too." Lily's face was smug as she watched Sirius' expression change rapidly to shocked. "They call you two Remrius. Or Simus. Yours isn't as settled."

Remus glanced at Sirius, clearly amused and wondering what his boyfriend would think of this new development.

"Remrius! That sounds ridiculous!"

Clearly disgruntled, Sirius sat back against the tree and crossed his arms over his chest.

"What would you suggest?" Remus asked playfully. "We could use my last name. People call me Lupin anyway."

"Which makes it Luprius," Sirius responded, cocking his head with disbelief, "or Supin."

Remus stuck out his tongue. "That sounds like 'supine.' I don't like that."

"What's 'supine'?" James asked, habitually seeking clarification since he knew Sirius wouldn't.

"It means laying on your back," Lily responded.

Sirius smiled again. "That doesn't work. You much prefer to be on your hands and knees, dontcha, Remus?"

"Sirius!"

"What? It's true! Although you're rather best when _I'm_ the one lying on my back, too." Remus and Lily blushed fiercely and cast their partners a disdainful look as the two exchanged high fives.

"No," Remus finally commented, "I don't think that'll be any good."

"Besides," Lily added, doing her best to support Remus, "if you're trying to 'escape' all these norms, why not come up with something else? It doesn't have to be your names. Everyone calls Bertie Scott and Matilda Brown 'ToadLion.'"

"ToadLion?" James asked.

"Yeah. Bertie's always going on about his Gryffindor pride and putting lion emblems on everything and…well, Matilda looks rather like a toad doesn't she? It's not a very nice name."

"Are girls always so mean?" Sirius asked, reaching a hand out to hold one of Remus' free ones. "That's why I like you better, Wolf."

Remus rolled his eyes but couldn't help smiling.

"Why don't you make that your goal? Since you aren't going to study for your N.E.W.T.s anyway, you might as well celebrate the Great Escape by 'escaping' this 'ship naming trend." Lily's voice was playful and teasing, but Sirius seemed to take her seriously anyway and considered the matter carefully for a moment.

"'Ship?" Remus pondered, joining the conversation tentatively.

"Relationship," she smiled. "And 10 pounds to the winner. No! Sorry, 10 knuts. So are you in?"

"You just can't get away from those habits, eh?" Sirius laughed, shaking his head.

"Oh don't you talk to me about getting away from anything, Sirius Black! Just how many things are you trying not to think about this week?"

"Alright," Sirius finally said, holding out his hand to shake hers. "Deal."

* * *

The next weeks were taken up almost entirely with Sirius displaying a level of organization that was quite entirely out of character. Although he didn't much care for his grades, he knew he couldn't afford to entirely fail the N.E.W.T.s, and planned set times to study each night. He also arranged time to scour the Daily Prophet for available rentals and houses around England for him and Remus to live in, and worked on making other plans for the Great Escape. The rest of his time was taken up with his nose in a small pocketbook, scribbling notes and associations, and rather poor attempts at couple names.

"This is why the mean girls do it," he finally announced one evening in the Common Room.

"What?" Lily asked, her eyes remaining fixed on her Potions notes.

"There's no way to make it sound nice. NerdPooch, BarkBark, DogDog, they all sound terrible."

Lily chuckled softly. "It just sounds like you're not very good at it," she said, "not that it's actually hard. There's lots of things you could use. NightMoon, RogueDog, there's lots of them. Unless you're giving up?"

Sirius gaped at her for a moment before returning to his pocket book. "No," he finally responded, "of course not."

Remus was no help, of course. He and Lily were utterly consumed with the N.E.W.T.s and the only time he took away from studying or meeting basic needs—("Come on, Remus, you can't get out of lunch. You _have to_ eat!")—was to help Sirius with plans for after school. It was most important to Remus that they lived someplace with enough security and freedom to manage his "furry little problem" if it got out of control.

James was more interested in Sirius' work than he was in N.E.W.T.s, though, which would've made him a good helper if he wasn't so concerned with taking Lily's side. Shirking his other responsibilities, he took it upon himself to tell Sirius how awful his names were.

"BrownishBlack," he said during breakfast one day, peering over Sirius' shoulder at the notebook's most recent scribble, "is not a proper name at all. That's awful."

He was more helpful with coming up with creative associations, though, even going so far as to tell Sirius about things he heard or read about.

"Have you thought about the stars?" James asked, watching Lily do her astronomy homework.

"I am a star," Sirius responded, not looking up, "and after the Great Escape, I might even be a famous one!"

James scoffed and rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. "No, I mean the real ones, you twit. The dog star is called 'Sirius.'"

Sirius sat back in his chair and finally glanced up. James was still fixated on Lily but he was watching out of the corner of his eye.

"What?" he asked.

"I probably knew that, but I hadn't thought of it," Sirius explained. "What about DogStar, then?"

"Well that would just be you, right? What about Remus?"

"Right. Damn." Sirius bent back over his notebook and continued trying to piece together other things, but wrote "star" in the corner of the page as inspiration.

* * *

As the term drew to a close and plans for the Great Escape were being finalized, Sirius found himself becoming more and more anxious. He wasn't sure why it mattered so much to him, although Lily suspected he was afraid. Whatever he said about being eager to be graduated and moved out officially, Sirius seemed to be grasping for something to distract himself. Lily found it a bit funny that he was trying to escape the Great Escape, but supposed that everyone was allowed to be afraid sometimes.

Still, he couldn't help feeling utterly...incompetent. There was an entire world waiting for him and planning his daring entrance into adulthood had been at the forefront of his mind since he could remember. But now, with it staring him in the face, Sirius found that his family wasn't the only thing he wanted to get away from. Responsibilities loomed dangerously in the future, and he found himself quite thoroughly wishing he could escape the inevitable.

Remus, of course, was also quite afraid, although for entirely different reasons.

"What's wrong with you, Wolf?" Sirius asked, rubbing a hand across the man's back as he lay his face on the table.

"I'm never going to pass these tests," he whimpered, "I'm never going to be anything."

"Hey! Don't say that! You're a whole lot of something to me. Doesn't that count?"

Remus nodded weakly, his face pressed against a book and his lips in a firm pout.

"You're pretty cute, too," Sirius added, eliciting a small smile.

"James said you're named after a star," Remus commented, changing the subject before his failures became too central in the conversation. "Pretty funny that your animagus fit that one so well, eh?"

Sirius smiled warmly, lowering his head so he was closer to Remus' face. "I suppose so," he responded quietly. Bending forward, he kissed the end of Remus' nose gently. "The Wolf and the Star," he commented. "I guess we make quite a pair."

He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with dry hands that made a scratching sound against his week-old stubble. "Lily's gonna win this one," he said finally.

"Lily only wins when she wants to win," Remus replied, sitting up as well. "I don't know that she wants to win this one. You know she'd love it if you came up with something."

Sirius nodded quietly. "I think I'm just trying to escape everything else. Moving, graduating, responsibility." His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, and Remus leaned forward to hear him, resting his head on Sirius' shoulder. "They're gonna get married, y'know. James and Lily. Everything's gonna change."

"Chin up, superstar," Remus responded, smiling slightly. "We will too someday."

Sirius scoffed. "Yeah," he said. "Someday, Wolf." He sighed deeply, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck as Remus returned to his notes. _Wolf,_ he scratched into his notebook, wondering if such an everyday nickname would be of any help.

Looking down, he realized that the notebook was quite full, as if it wished to prove just how uncreative he really was. Since he didn't have enough space to write it neatly, he scrawled it into the corner, next to where he'd written _Star_ when he spoke with James. A small smile crept across his face as he stared down at the page.

"How about that, Remus? How does WolfStar sound to you?"

Remus laughed softly, his steely eyes twinkling. "I think it sounds silly. But not as bad as Remrius. Shall we tell Lily?"

"We?" Sirius scoffed, pushing his chair back and standing up. "You've been no help at all. _I_ will tell Lily."

* * *

He'd won the bet. Not that it was much of a win, of course, although he had reserved the right to call Lily and James "Lames" for the next year. As fast as lightning, their last day of Hogwarts had arrived. Of course, it wouldn't really be the end of the socializing that Sirius so enjoyed, as they had already made plans to hang out the following week and he'd be going home with James. But something about Hogwarts castle disappearing into the distance as they boarded the train back to London just felt _wrong._

"The Great Escape," Sirius murmured, his forehead pressed against the cold glass of the window. "WolfStar and Lames against the world."

With Remus' warm hand resting in his, it wasn't so hard to believe that they might be okay after all.


	17. Round 3: Fourth Story

**A/N: This world is JKR's.**

 **TW: Character death; dark imagery of war.**

 **Ravenclaw (HOH)**

 **Category: Themed (Escape) (HOH fourth piece)**

 **Prompt: Colin Creevey**

 **W/C: 750**

Dozens of wizards and witches were scattered across the grounds of Hogwarts. Some of them were even still alive. Armed with a wand and a limited understanding of magic theory, Colin was among those who were lucky enough to be standing. Although "lucky" was a funny word to describe an outnumbered soldier. Still, Colin had always counted himself lucky to be part of the magic world, and fighting alongside his peers was as high an honor as any he could think of.

Flashes of green and gold, eruptions of red, bursts of white and blue sparks—the spells flew across the rolling hills, cutting sharp gouges into the earth when they missed their target. The night wore on and the battle seemed endless, but as more people dropped, it seemed inevitable that there would be a winner and a loser.

Known for their bravery, Gryffindor had produced the majority of fighters in the battle, and took the heaviest toll. Colin, however, couldn't help thinking that perhaps he wasn't as brave as he thought. Looking around at the men, women, and children as they lashed out spells and incantations, he couldn't help questioning what it was all for.

These people were going to die—many already had died—for their friends and family, for their loved ones, for their legacy. But Colin Creevey was a Muggle-born. He thought of his dad, at home alone and waiting desperately for news from his boys. He thought of Dennis, dragged into this world when he so clearly didn't fit. Dennis had excelled in Muggle school, and it seemed so unfair to expect him to do well in a world that didn't want him. The war had made that much clear; in the eyes of Wizards, Muggle-borns were nothing.

Not all Wizards. But enough. Enough that an entire war and the atrocities of one of the most powerful Wizards ever to exist were based on the simple idea that people like Colin and Dennis weren't meant to use magic.

The funny thing was that Colin had only ever wanted to be magic. He'd hated his Muggle school and his Muggle life. When his Hogwarts letter came, it was like a fresh breeze through an old window. It was an opportunity to escape all the things he thought were inevitably part of life.

But Hogwarts hadn't really fixed those things, and now he just wished he could go back. That he could escape the war and the pain and the tragedies this world had shown it was so capable of. These things didn't have to be inevitable, but seemed to be for Wizards.

He thought of Harry, a boy who was famous for surviving a brutal murder attempt as a baby, and then returning to survive many more. Celebration was certainly in order, but Colin couldn't help feeling that this never should have happened in the first place. The magic world was too powerful for itself, and he'd come to the conclusion that it would ultimately burn itself out.

Dennis had already left, as he was still too young to fight in this war, and Colin found himself thinking only of his brother as he slowly made a decision. This world didn't want him, and the odds of him having learned anything useful when he'd spent so much time behind a camera instead of a wand was unlikely; he was sure his disappearance wouldn't change the tide of battle too much.

Finally, Colin Creevey would take the reins of his own life. He'd make a decision for himself. And _finally_ he'd be able to escape.

As the spells around him died down, he made a break, dashing for the doors into Hogwarts. He knew he couldn't safely apparate, and focused his attention on the Room of Requirement, where a safe exit had been prepared for the younger students. His attention set, he planned each step to get the most out of the energy it took to sprint that distance. A flurry of red sparks broke against a column as he ran past and he ducked, renewed vigor dragging him faster forward.

His limbs burned but the pain was worth it if he could just get out of Hogwarts and away from this world. He had no doubt that Dennis would understand and they could go home. They could get away from all of this.

Showers of blue and a flash of green light. A scream from someplace close by. He was so close he could almost-


	18. Bonus Round 2: Golden Era Pre-Hogwarts

**A/N: This world is JKR's.**

 **Ravenclaw**

 **Bonus round 2**

 **Themed: Golden Era Pre-Hogwarts**

 **Prompt: (1) Sometimes the right decision is the hardest.**

 **Prompt: (2) She/he could bare to hold on no longer.**

 **W/C: 1373**

Clutching a bouquet of flowers in both tiny hands, Neville Longbottom trotted alongside Gran as they maneuvered through Muggle London. The city had always fascinated the five-year-old, particularly since his own magic was so disappointing to his family that his grandmother often threatened to leave him there; he supposed he should learn to love the city. Still, this particular visit was not a happy one, and he kept his eyes straight ahead.

Even at his young age, Neville understood that he wasn't the only one who was hurting. He'd never really gotten to know his parents, but Gran had. She'd lost a son and daughter-in-law when Neville lost his mum and dad. And now they were making their last trip to go visit.

There was a chance, of course, that they'd be able to go back someday, in five or ten or twenty years. When the nurse at St. Mungo's had explained that each visit seemed to be undoing all of the progress the young couple was making, the family had made the heart-wrenching choice to stay away. Although there was little hope that Frank and Alice would ever fully recover, there was a chance that they could at least learn to be independent, and that was worlds better than the 24/7 assistance they required now. The hospital staff had agreed and Gran had scheduled their final visit for today, dragging Neville along beside her.

He didn't fully understand—how could he? But he knew that his mum cried when he showed up, and that his dad just looked scared, and that was enough to convince him that Gran was right. He held onto that image as he followed her to the entrance of St. Mungo's, trying desperately to hold back the tears he knew were just brimming to the surface. Sometimes, the right decision is the hardest.

Gran performed the necessary—and very confusing—magic for entrance into the hospital and they stepped into the lobby. Healers moved about the halls with varying degrees of urgency and Neville sighed. He was grateful for the care they could provide, but he didn't really have anything positive to associate with the hospital, and the feeling of dread only grew as they made their way to Frank and Alice's rooms.

This part of the hospital was the most dreary, but often the least gory. Although there was less of the sorts of things Gran covered Neville's eyes for, the people in this ward weren't really people. Or they weren't really here. It was fairly often that someone would be mistaken for dead, simply because they'd ceased to really be. Neville wasn't quite sure what it meant to be dead, but he thought that it was probably being like this, except that you couldn't move your body anymore either.

They checked in at the main desk and gently pushed open the door of room 219. Neville peered around Gran's leg, clutching the flowers tightly and searching the room for his mother's sweet eyes. He wondered what it would be like to really have a mother.

For a moment, Frank and Alice Longbottom looked happy. They surveyed their young son with a beautiful serenity, and Frank almost seemed to recognize his mother. Neville and Gran took advantage of that brief time, because it always was brief.

Almost every visit was the same: they would arrive and everything would be nearly perfect, they would spend time together, usually about twenty minutes, and then something would change and Frank and Alice's faces would turn into expressions of horror. Then there was the screaming. The horrible screaming. The unbearable sound of agony that no child should have to hear their parents endure and that no mother should have to hear her child express. The pain of it was always too much, and as the Healers rushed into the room to help comfort the terrorized young couple, Neville and Gran would leave quietly, keeping their goodbyes to themselves.

But for the first twenty minutes, everything was okay. Neville reveled in that time. Gran, naturally drawn to her son, would sit beside Frank and fuss over his clothes or his hair, tenderly reminding him to take good care of himself. Neville, however, would sit on his mum's lap. He was never sure if she really wanted him to sit there or if she pulled him there because it just felt right. He hoped it was the latter; it felt right to him.

Alice Longbottom was soft and warm and very sweet. She had pretty hair and pretty eyes and pretty skin. Neville didn't think anybody in the world could be as pretty as his mum, and he loved to touch her cheek or her hair. He didn't have to say very much, and he didn't really have much to say, but Alice would always listen. She wasn't verbal yet, and so she didn't ever say anything back. But Neville loved to tell her about everything that had happened since the last time he'd seen her.

Sometimes he'd talk about magic, but since he didn't have very much, he liked to talk about other things. He'd tell her about London, or a book he'd seen, or a picture, or a toy. She always nodded and smiled like she knew exactly what he was talking about. Maybe she did.

And then the twenty-first minute would come. Sometimes it wasn't so precise, but it certainly felt like it to Neville. It didn't really seem like there was anything that triggered it, but it always happened. Sometimes he heard Gran and the Healers discussing different reasons based on what had happened, and he'd put his hands over his ears and hum until they stopped.

Frank and Alice apparently were happy enough most of the rest of the time. There were incidents but that was to be expected. One of the healers told him once that the only word they'd spoken since they came to St. Mungo's was "Neville," but he wasn't sure if they were just trying to make him feel better. He wished it was true. He wished he could hear his mum say his name. He knew he might not hear his mum say anything again and he couldn't even remember what her voice sounded like.

This visit—the last visit—would be different. There would be no twenty-first minute. Neville and Gran couldn't stand to leave with that image as their last one, although Gran would never admit how much it hurt her. They couldn't help pushing their time though. Ten minutes came and went with Neville sitting on his mum's lap and talking about the different words he'd learned for colors. This was easy because he could point at the flowers and tell her what colors they were.

Her eyes were so happy and so pretty. She watched, and smiled, and nodded, and Neville wondered if she knew the words for colors anymore. But he wouldn't have time to find out. Soon, almost fifteen minutes had gone by, and Gran tapped him on the shoulder softly.

"Time to go," she said softly. It seemed to Neville that her voice was funny. Like she was trying to swallow something too big while she spoke. He sort of felt the same, and thought she might be trying to swallow her sadness. Or perhaps her tears, because Neville's came out his eyes and hers never seemed to come out at all.

Neville nodded and cast a glance back at his mum. He placed one small hand on her shoulder and leaned up to kiss her cheek. He was surprised to find that it was wet, and he watched in shock as a single small tear slid down her face. Gran gasped softly but regained her composure and moved to stand by the door, a clear indication to Neville that they needed to leave. It really was too much to bear.

"I love you, Mum," he whispered gently. Sliding to the floor, he took the most normal steps he could manage, afraid that if he walked too fast he'd forget to remember this moment, and if he walked too slow he'd get stuck in it.

Slowly and very broken, his mum's soft voice rang through the heavy silence. "Goodbye, Neville."


End file.
